The first compulsory Muggle Studies class of the semester had been a bit of a joke; no seventh year student took it seriously. At least none of those that hadn't planned to take the class anyway. In a way, Tracey felt bad for the students who had originally intended to take N.E.W.T. level Muggle Studies. Not because a subject they cared for had been co-opted and corrupted by a racist hunchback of a woman, but because they were the kind of nerds that found Muggle Studies interesting to begin with.

The second compulsory Muggle Studies class of the semester had been less funny. The spitting, sinister, spinster of a woman who styled herself as "Professor Carrow" had treated to them an hour and a half of vitriolic propaganda. Pansy Parkinson had had quite a grand time, but she was perhaps the only one.

The third had been worse. The fourth, largely unbearable.

Tracey had spent years in the Slytherin dormitories, surrounded by those with old, pure blood and intense prejudices. She'd survived that—she had thrived, in fact. Nothing drove her to succeed more than knowing it would upset the bigots and idiots she called housemates. She had felt outcast at times. She'd reveled in it.

It was nothing compared to what she felt now. What she felt now was fear.

The fifth week, the Professors Carrow held a joint class. In it, they attempted to demonstrate the inherent weakness of muggle blood by having Neville Longbottom hex Hannah Abbott. When he refuses, they cackled; perfect, they'd get to do a side-by-side comparison.

Tracey felt sick and afraid—too afraid to look away—as Amycus Carrow turned his wand upon each in turn, and shouted about how much louder Hannah screamed, and how that was evidence of her muddy blood. She swayed. Daphne's fingers dug into her elbow, steadying her on her feet. The two girls exchanged a glance. Reflected in the perfect, pristine blue of Daphne Greengrass's eyes, Tracey saw her own fear.

Tracey hadn't always loved Daphne. At first, she had loathed her as she had loathed them all. Thin, small, with beautiful and delicate faces. Pureblood girls, brought up in fine manor homes. They'd all known each other already, and knew their roles. Pansy was in charge, Sally-Anne and Daphne served her, and poor Millicent Bulstrode (who unfortunately did not share in her compatriots' good looks) existed to make them all feel better about themselves.

Dark-skinned, tall, and a tomboy, Tracey never would have fit in, even if all of her grandparents had been wizards, instead of just one. It had been a lonely first year.

Second year hadn't gotten off to a much better start, and when muggleborn students started turning up petrified, Tracey began to worry that she had something—or someone—to fear.

Then one evening, after the other girls had fallen asleep, a soft voice had asked her, "Are you afraid?"

And Tracey had turned to see the pale, luminously blue eyes of Daphne Greengrass watching her from the next bed over. Defiant, Tracey had responded.

"No."

A moment of silence had hung between them, before Daphne responded.

"I am."

Tracey had loved her since. Not at first, and not all at once, but over time they'd developed a strong bond. Daphne had disentangled herself somewhat from Pansy, confessing to Tracey the anxiety she experienced around the other girls—the insecurity and uncertainty.

They had been children then—more so than they were now, although Tracey had never felt so powerless as she did during that 'lesson'. More than the powerlessness, and the fear, however, was a deep sense of shame. The shame started when Neville Longbottom refused to curse Hannah. It deepened as she witnessed their pain, feeling herself shrinking away, trying to make herself smaller.

Neville Longbottom could be brave.

Tracey Davis would pray that no one noticed or remembered that she, herself, had murkier blood than any other student remaining at Hogwarts.

That evening, as they settled into their seats for dinner, Daphne laid a delicate hand on Tracey's arm, "Are you alright?"

Tracey nodded.

"It's just, you look a little not alright."

"I'm fine."

"If you say so, it's just that it seems you aren't, and if you aren't, I'd like to know."

"I'm fine." Tracey hissed, half-whispering, her eyes darting down the table to where Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle sat together with Draco Malfoy. Daphne followed her eyes, and exhaled heavily through her nose.

"Understood."

Theodore had joined them, looking troubled. Daphne turned her concern to him.

"What's going on?"

"There's a third year in the Hospital Wing, says Carrow hexed her."

"Which Carrow?"

"Does is matter? It's one thing to curse us, but children?"

"Right," Daphne rolled her eyes in his direction, picking apart a piece of bread delicately, "The vast difference between hexing children and hexing slightly older children. We're all children, Theo."

"We're not all in danger, though." Tracey offered bitterly, eyes fixed upon the table in front of her, eyes swimming in what couldn't have possibly been tears.

Daphne and Theodore glanced at each other, both knowing she meant that neither of them were in any danger. They were hard-pressed to disagree, and so didn't.

After dinner, Tracey declined to accompany her friends back to their common room. Despite the years of warm friendship with Daphne and tepid acceptance with Theodore, she wasn't feeling very much at the moment that she had much in common with either.

Tracey had learned early in her education to remain tight-lipped about herself; her history, her parentage, her lineage. She'd confided in Daphne, in bits and pieces, over the years, but for the most part had avoided sharing. She was marked as different from her peers enough as it was.

She was marked by her skin: dark and rich and beautiful but different. Sure, Blaise Zabini was black as well, but something about him conveyed a sense of high-society and aristocracy. It was an air that Tracey had never been able to exude, perhaps because she hadn't been born wealthy. Zabini could make up for his differences in gold and clout; Tracey had neither.

She was marked by her name: Davis. Unbearably common and conspicuously absent from any wizarding social circles, and certainly not present in the lineages of any of the so-called sacred twenty-eight, to which most of her peers belonged.

'Peers' meaning, of course, her fellow Slytherins, although she doubted sincerely that any of them would consider her an equal.

It's one thing to curse us. That was what Theodore had said. Us. As if he or Daphne were ever in any danger. No, Theodore was of course blind to it, but the berth given to him, to a Nott, and to the Greengrasses and Malfoys of the world was wide. Not even Parkinson enjoyed such privilege.

Neither of the Carrows dared touch a hair on Daphne or Theodore's head.

For Tracey, it felt like only a matter of time.

Her steps slowed and she halted in the middle of a corridor, candlelight flickering around her. She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting back tears. Don't let them see you cry.

She had never let them see her cry, not about such things anyway. She'd cried to Daphne when Cedric Diggory had turned her down for the Yule Ball, but that had been childish and silly; the tears of a heartbroken teenaged girl who felt completely in love with a handsome boy she had never even spoken with.

Cedric Diggory was dead now, of course.

Tracey set out again, quick footsteps echoing in the otherwise empty hallways.

In the Slytherin common room, Daphne sat by a roaring fire that somehow failed to warm the entirety of the dark, dank space. In her hands was an Arithmancy textbook, but she wasn't reading. Theodore had gone out on his evening rounds—they traded days of wandering the castle in search of rule-breaking students, a tedious task if there ever was one. Daphne herself tended to shirk her duties—circling the main levels before retiring to an empty classroom with a book (and, sometimes, a flask) to waste time before returning to her dormitory.

If there were rule-breakers around, she doubted she'd want to catch them. The atmosphere in the castle these days was not the same as in previous years. There were no twelve year olds sneaking to the kitchens in the middle of the night, or fifteen year olds in search of an empty classroom to mess around in. To risk such things was to risk more than a detention. The Carrows were stricter disciplinarians than Filch could have ever hoped to be, as much of a curmudgeonly old squib as he was. He'd always expressed a desire to cane the students, but Daphne had never heard of him actually attacking one.

The Carrows did it as part of their lessons.

As of yet, no one was stupid enough to risk getting caught because they wanted a private place to shag or extra ice cream before bed.

Not that there weren't students sneaking around—Daphne knew that there were. The Gryffindors in her year thought themselves sneaky, but she saw their tired eyes, caught snippets of their whispered conversations.

She didn't care to catch them at it. Whatever they were up to, she felt absolutely certain it was above her pay grade.

"I have to ask Greengrass, after all these years has that chair actually conformed to the shape of your ass? I never see it without you in it."

Shaken from whatever thoughts she had been entertaining about the futility of trying to peer-police a student body under constant threat of torture, Daphne blinked slowly at Pansy Parkinson for a moment before smiling slowly.

"I find it always needs to be broken in again at the end of the summer. I suspect they've been replacing it with a replica each year and not telling me."

Pansy smiled, and sat in an identical chair to the other side of the fireplace. Faces dramatically illuminated by the flames and by the greenish light that pervaded the entire common room, it would be difficult not to notice the stark differences between the girls.

Pansy was smaller, with a strong, imposing body and severe facial features. She'd had a strange look, almost pug-like, as a child but had grown into a square jaw and button nose. Her hair, perfectly straight and quite dark, hung in a perfectly manicured curtain about her face. She regarded Daphne coolly.

Daphne was softer; light hair with light eyes and faint freckles on the places where the sun touched her most. Daphne had a habit of carrying herself like a person who did not want to be noticed.

Daphne had always envied Pansy's confidence and presence. No matter how you felt about the girl—and she was a divisive individual—you could not deny that whatever you felt you felt strongly. Daphne herself had often felt overshadowed and cast to the side by Pansy's dominating presence.

Pansy had, of course, always envied Daphne's name. Daphne had never needed to be confident or clever—she had a name: Greengrass. One of the sacred twenty-eight. No matter how pure Pansy's blood was (and, as she'd be the first to assure you, it was rather pure) there would always be certain doors closed to her, certain tables where she was not welcome.

Certain boys who would not want to marry her.

"Where's Nott?" She asked, after a moment of silence had passed between them. Daphne shrugged.

"Out and about, doing whatever it is he does."

"Shouldn't you be out and about as well?" There was an accusatory tone that Daphne did not miss. She supposed Pansy was still upset that Daphne had gotten the Head Girl's badge. Daphne shrugged.

"We usually trade off nights, it's not that important, frankly." Pansy bristled visibly and Daphne cringed at her own tactlessness. Pansy probably didn't consider the job to be even remotely unimportant.

"I notice Davis isn't around either." Pansy said, giving the room a cursory glance, raising a perfect eyebrow as she did, "That's odd, the two of you are usually attached at the hip."

Daphne checked her watch, brow furrowing. It was getting late. She felt a pit of a worry lodge itself into her stomach, where she knew it would only grow until waiting around became unbearable. She'd have to go looking for her friend soon, if Tracey didn't show up.

"I feel bad for her, really." Pansy continued, her voice a low drawl, "Being the only mudblood left in the castle must be so lonely."

It was Daphne's turn to bristle, "Tracey is halfblood." She told Pansy coolly, eyes returning to the pages of her book, although she could barely see the words. Pansy laughed.

"Only in the most technical of senses, I suppose. I heard her family's in hiding. Awful brave of her not to join them. Or just stupid."

"Tracey is halfblood." Daphne repeated tersely. Pansy was trying to push her buttons.

"I heard she's lying about that," Pansy's voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, and Daphne had to wonder if her dorm-mate thought they were gossiping together, or if she realized the gravity of certain rumors. "I heard she only claims her mother had a wizard for a father—she can't really prove it, can she? They're all dead."

"Well if you go back far enough in anyone's lineage, there must be parentage you can't quite prove. I mean, take the Parkinsons for example, you lot haven't been around that long. Who's to say your great grandfather didn't marry a muggle?"

Pansy wrinkled her nose, "No one's questioning my blood, Greengrass."

"And no one's questioning Tracey's either."

"Not yet." It was a threat, Daphne could tell that much. She frowned, and checked her watch again.